


Qrow's Mentor

by SeaFeudJagger



Category: Darksiders (Video Games), RWBY
Genre: Canon Related, First Meetings, Gen, Mentor-Apprentice relationship, Pre-Canon, young bandit Qrow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaFeudJagger/pseuds/SeaFeudJagger
Summary: The scythe is a dangerous weapon that proved to be just as harmful to the wielder as it is for the opponent. How is it then that Qrow Branwen managed to turn a farm tool into a weapon that could combat most Grimm with ease? Where did he learn the techniques to fully master its lethality? Little did anyone know that Qrow did have a mentor once, if he could even be labeled as such.





	Qrow's Mentor

**Author's Note:**

> I just had to write this down. I couldn't focus on other stories I want continue not until I could get this idea off my head.
> 
> As you figured, this is a RWBY x Darksiders fanfic idea that had crossed my mind a year ago, but only decided to write now because of Darksiders 3 coming out in a few months and me being a fan of RWBY. It's not like most other stories I've seen for the crossover archive of these two in particular, so I hope you're interested enough to read it. Please enjoy!
> 
> Disclamer: I do not own RWBY or Darksiders.

Qrow sighed as he sat against the trunk of a fallen tree, staring blankly up at the clear, blue sky.

He had wandered off farther than what was allowed from the base camp, but frankly he didn't care. With autumn nearing its end, the tribe decided to settle down a temporary encampment to prepare for the upcoming winter. That meant raids were less frequent and gathering supplies became the top priority. Sentries stationed at the gate were more focused in keeping themselves warm rather than guarding the area.

Which provided Qrow all the distraction he needed to slip away from camp.

He didn't travel far, stopping by a hill that overlooked the tribe settlement. It gave him a proper view of the sharpened log walls and tents stationed throughout the camp. A large patch of ground near the east wall was left unhindered, cleared of grass to prepare for the training of new recruits soon.

At the reminder, Qrow leaned his head back and groaned. In two weeks, he and Raven will be brought up to that clearing together with the rest of the recruits to start their basic training. At twelve years old they were now at the right age to learn how to fight, protect, and kill those that would interfere with the tribe's operations.

Qrow knew just how brutal those sessions would be, having seen the previous recruits prior to them battering each other, playing dirty, and even breaking bones in order to survive. Those chosen by the tribe leader to have the most potential will get further training, and get the chance to join future raids and possibly fight Huntsmen. The ones left behind have options ranging from guard duty to latrine work, and the weakest were cast off into wilderness for the Grimm.

Raven remained confident that they would get picked easily. She had started outlining her weapon months ago, a long curved katana just around her size. They were forced to bring their own weapons, either handed down and liberated from previous raids, or have none at all. Raven, however, wanted to stand out from the rest. She believed that handcrafting her own weapon would prove just how determined she was at becoming the best and demanded her brother to do the same.

Qrow was less sure of their chances. It didn't help that he hadn't even started on deciding what weapon to choose from. There were guns, knives, swords and axes, but they didn't peak Qrow's interest that much. Almost everyone at the tribe had at least one. Only the more experienced bandits have better graded weapons. If he wanted to stand out, he needed to be different. It's just that he hasn't been able to think of one that exactly fits him.

He's heard rumors of Huntsmen being taught how to craft their own weapons within their academies, Atlesian knights carrying around advanced rifles that could shoot an Ursa clean through their thick fur, even the faunus with their animal traits gave them natural advantages in a brawl. But he was just some kid in a bandit tribe, with none of the resources or the lien to build one of his own.

Frustrated, Qrow grabbed a rock and threw it somewhere to his left. He felt useless. Like every other recruit in camp he had his Aura unlocked early on for self-defense but without an idea of what his Semblance would be, he'd have to rely on his own strengths in a real battle. That doesn't mean he was no slouch or helpless in a fight. But he needed something else to prove his worth and set him against other boys his age.

Sighing once more, he stood up and headed for the forest behind him.

Red leaves fell around him as he strode past. Trees shedding its green palette in favor of different coats—red, yellow, orange before soon returning to a blank slate under the heap of snowfall. Autumn had come to the forest, leaves of magnificent shades catching the wind, spiraling and dancing as they flew their course down towards the northwest region of Anima. A glimpse of the sparkling waters of Lake Matsu could be seen if one looked eastwards to the camp, its floating islands just barely discernible enough through the thick fog.

As he inched deeper into the undergrowth Qrow withdrew the slingshot from his pocket, his other hand reaching for a smooth stone from his belt pouch, loaded it into the leather pad and drew the rubber chord back in a quick, practiced maneuver. He scanned the trees and bushes for signs that would indicate a disturbance from birds or small critters. It didn't take him long to find one. Wedged into the many branches of the tree was a nest.

However, rather than the typical sight of a bird caring for its young as one might expect, a small Nevermore poked its bony head through the nest rummaging the roost for food or hatchlings. It wasn't unheard of for young Grimm to occasionally seek out its live animal counterparts, challenging them or disrupting their habitual periods for reasons unknown to the locals. Qrow, aware of this habit, smirked as he aimed his slingshot at the Nevermore and fired.

The small Nevermore let out a pained shriek as the stone cracked its feathery hide, launching it from the nest and dropping to the ground. It continued to screech loudly and tried to stand up before Qrow ended it with a knife to the neck. He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he watched the Grimm dissolve into black mist. It always felt rewarding when he killed one of them despite its meager size, knowing how many people the tribe lost during Grimm attacks. He hoped that one day he'll get to fight larger Grimm like the Ursa or an actual Nevermore.

A loud squawk interrupted his thoughts. Qrow turned to the direction of the noise and found himself facing one of the biggest crows he has ever seen. The hefty bird was settled on the low hanging branch of a tree, yellow eyes regarding him while it rustled its mangy feathers. Their meat may not have as much flavor than that of a pheasant or quail but it would definitely last him and Raven for at least two to three days if they managed it without sharing with the others. His mouth watered just at the thought of the smell once he delivered it to the cook for plucking and frying.

As if sensing his intentions, the crow squawked indignantly and flew past the tree Qrow stood by. He immediately ran after it, loading his slingshot in case he had a clear shot. The crow weaved through the surrounding trees in hopes of dissuading its pursuer. But Qrow was persistent, leaves and twigs crackling under his boots as he brushed past a bramble and nearly knocking his head against a particularly thick branch positioned above him. He released a shot in vain, but it was a clumsy action, barely reaching close to the direction the crow flew.

He gritted his teeth as the crow kept distance, attempting to confuse him by swerving in sharp turns around the dense layer of trees. Fortunately, Qrow has experience with tracking down animals during a hunt. Though even the crow's efforts was beginning to tire him. His annoyance kept him going. Why was this bird even keeping chase? It could easily have flown upwards and disappear into the branches. Instead, it looked to be heading somewhere. Strange behavior, even for a bird.

Well, if this stubborn crow isn't willing to give up chase then Qrow would follow suit.

Eventually, the dense layer of undergrowth grew too close to each other where the thick canopy blocked all but the faintest rays of sunlight. Keeping the bird in his sights was becoming difficult, its dark feathers melding in with the shadows cast by autumn leaves. Qrow skidded to a halt when the crow finally disappeared from his view. He cursed loudly, throwing his slingshot to the ground in frustration. He bent over with his feet apart and placed his hands on his knees, breathing heavily as the exhaustion finally caught up to him.

Steadying himself against a tree, Qrow stood on shaky legs and took deep breaths. He wiped his sweating forehead and glanced around, blinking at the unfamiliar section of the forest he dragged himself into. It suddenly dawned on him how far he had ran off from camp, his efforts leading him astray just as the sun began its descent on the horizon.

"Shit."

Raven was going to kill him. She's going to find him dead in these woods, somehow drag him back to camp, revive him, and kill him again for his idiocy. Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_ Why did he even chase the damn bird in the first place? Now he was lost in the middle of the woods with no food, no weapon, and no clear way back to camp before nightfall. He might as well be easy pickings for the Grimm.

At that last thought, his head turned fearfully at the shadows stretched along the grove like long, spindly fingers reaching for him. Qrow hastily retreated from the threatening mirage, nearly tripping on his feet in his haste. Wide eyes frantically searched the area for any sort of glade he could manage into a shelter for the upcoming night. His search came up fruitless, and he nearly gave up when he caught sight of a faint glow in the distance.

He approached it warily, aware that other bandit tribes could be lurking in the area and wouldn't hesitate to kill an intruder for sneaking up on them. But he was desperate for any form of company at this point, the evening chill running a shiver down his spine. He felt relieved when he saw no one close by the faint light that revealed to be the glowing embers of a small campfire. But what he saw instead made him pause all the same.

An enormous scythe stood upright next to the fire. It was bigger than any of the tools he'd seen farmers use for hacking at crops, and looked far deadlier. Its blade shone a wicked gleam in the firelight, jagged and crafted like the wing of some great beast, longer than Qrow's height even if he stood on his toes. The haft was wedged firmly onto the ground, painting the image of an ominous pennant. Qrow didn't even want to think about how strong its wielder must be to swing around such a thing.

In his awed scrutiny of the scythe, Qrow nearly missed the dark figure perched on the dull outer curve of the blade.

He did a double take when he noticed the crow he'd chased from earlier now settled on top of the fearsome scythe. The bird almost appeared smug by his reaction to seeing it once again, though it did eye him curiously as he edged closer to the campfire.

Qrow had no wish to repeat the disaster that ended up getting him lost here in the first place, and so decided to keep his distance from the bird while circling around the fire. He carefully placed himself close enough to feel its warmth, keeping view of the bird and scythe in his sights, and rubbed his arms and shoulders. Once warming himself considerably, he sat back and relaxed. The heat of the fire a welcome blanket during the chilly nights this close to the northern mountains.

Leaning back on his hands, Qrow glanced over to the top curve of the scythe where the other occupant resided. The bird had all but ignored him, preening at its feathers irritably and shaking off loose feathers. It had only stared at him once with a strangely intuitive gleam in its eyes before retreating within its wing and sat comfortably on the blade.

"Hey," Qrow called out, some urge compelling him to speak. "No hard feelings about earlier, alright?"

A flash of its beak, and one beady eye leering at him was all the response he received. Moments later it cawed derisively, dark wings flapping in a threatening manner before returning to its previous position.

"S'not my fault that you came out of nowhere right when I was hungry," Qrow grumbled, almost to himself.

He sat there for a while, knees huddled to his chest, staring into the flames. Despite it comforting warmth, it brought no solace to his thoughts on how to get back to camp before sunrise without Raven killing him. She could be an annoying know-it-all sometimes; bossing him around like she's the older twin, looking out for him after getting into fights with the other kids. She thinks he doesn't notice her giving him those concerned glances whenever he's not looking. _Family_ , she once told him. _We need to rely on each other to survive out here_.

And as strange as it is for him to admit, he doesn't want to disappoint her. She's kept them both alive for this long after the bandit tribe took them in. He can hardly remember their parents at this point. It's always been them since then. Qrow grudgingly supposed that it's a small price to pay to find himself a weapon so that they can both be ready for the Selection. Not that he'll ever say that out loud.

A strange, crackling sound brought him out of his thoughts. He glanced around, the scenery around him remained unchanged. The crow even managed to fall asleep on top of the scythe. At first he thought he'd imagined it, or misplaced it for the sound of kindling breaking under the fire. Then he noticed the ground where the scythe was planted on started to shake. The haft seemed to twitch, wiggling itself out of its anchor and hoisting the entire scythe into the air.

The movement caused the bird to abruptly awaken with a loud screech, catching it off guard as it dislodged from its perch atop the scythe. It glared balefully across something towards the woods, ignoring Qrow as he stared, mouth agape, at the now floating scythe as it appeared to hover a few feet above the ground.

Then as abruptly as it defied gravity, the scythe quickly shot into the cluster of trees and slashed into whatever obstacle in the way of its path. The crow flew towards its way, snapping an irritated caw as it slowly glided through low hanging branches.

Qrow hesitated, unsure of what to do. He didn't even realize that he stood up at some point, hands clenched and shaking at what he just witnessed. Something in his head was screaming at him to leave, that he shouldn't even _be_ here. Warning him to turn back now and forget everything that he'd just seen. Despite every ounce of instinct prompting him to stay or run away, he felt his feet lead him ahead towards the forest, almost running into the path of chopped bark and branches the scythe left in its path of destruction.

Curiosity gnawed at his thoughts. A hundred different reasons trying to justify or explain what had just occurred. Magic? Was that it? He'd heard stories of dark witches living in the forest and tricking children into following them into their den. Before the children knew it they were stuffed into the cauldron and cooked for the evening meal. Was he leading himself into such a trap?

Could the crow from earlier be a familiar of the witch? Or was it the witch herself glamoured into a bird and spying at him in the forest before deciding him to be her next meal? Despite himself, Qrow couldn't help but scoff at the silly thought. As if people can turn into animals. Maybe it was madness catching up to him after being out in the wilderness for too long.

Before he could come up with another explanation, Qrow saw the path ahead started to clear of trees and slowed his running into a jog. Not wanting to give himself away for whatever he might come across. Shards of moonlight pierced through the canopy, casting a faint glow over the silent forest. Qrow squinted at the darkness, the shattered moon providing faint visibility for him to tread on uneven ground. Already his legs started to ache after several unfortunate stumbles over thick roots and brambles during his trek across the forest.

Qrow sighed in relief as he finally reached the end of the forest, giving way to what appeared to be a large clearing filled with knee-length grass. He hardly relaxed when suddenly something large slammed into the tree next to him, nearly startling him to death. He barely covered his mouth in time to stifle the scream he was about to release, heart pounding against his chest at the sudden shock of adrenaline.

Once certain that he regained himself, Qrow released his hands with a loud gasp and exhaled all that he held back in a single breath. His chest heaved slightly with every quick breath he took as he stared wide-eyed at the slowly fading body of a dead Beowolf. Its dark fur oozed an inky black vapor, highlighting the large red wound carved on its chest.

Qrow gaped at the lifeless form of the Grimm before his eyes slid over to the clearing from where it met its swift demise.

A tall, pale figure stood across the grass covered clearing. His torso bare of anything that resembled clothing save for the cowl covering his head. He wore dark leathers and piecemeal armor from the waist down. Forearms wrapped in skeletal gauntlets stretched over to fingers that gripped a familiar, enormous scythe.

From beneath the cowl, Death's gaze narrowed at the horde of lupine creatures congregated in front of him. Covered in thick dark fur and sharp bone spikes protruding from junctures around its body, the beasts snarled at him menacingly despite keeping a wary distance between them. After a brash attack from one of its brethren failed to subdue him, the rest of the pack kept an arm's length and assessed the threat more carefully. Glowing eyes glared from underneath bone white skulls etched in red markings, filled with nothing but hate and malice.

His own face betrayed no emotion. A similar mask of bone white evoking that of a skull hid his face from further scrutiny. Only the gaping sockets―through which eyes of burning orange gleamed, unblinking―provided a hint of the Horseman's thoughts.

Death couldn't say for certain how he landed in this predicament. Wildlife with any sort of sense had the tendency to avoid his very being. For good reason, of course. However, these creatures have been persistent in trailing him since his arrival merely hours ago. They hid in the undergrowth in an effort to mask their scent, but Death had grown finely attuned with the ambience of his surroundings to not notice the disturbance that reached him when he first stepped foot into this forest.

He ignored them at first in favor of looking for a particular spot to settle down. However, as the hours passed by, their numbers only grew. Death had not even gotten a glimpse of them at this point. They kept to the shadows like a predator would stalk its prey. He'd had to alleviate Dust's concerned squawks at several points during his trek, the crow having scoured the area from above in search of any danger and was aware of the beasts' presence.

Death had an inkling that they wouldn't strike until nightfall. It was a natural stratagem to corner a prey once they are at their most vulnerable. And the darkness would only serve as a shroud of opportunity to circle around their quarry and disguise themselves within the shadows. He has utilized this tactic many times in the past, and very well knew how to use these animals' primal instincts to his advantage.

He'd planted Harvester in the ground next to the fire he started, sat down, and waited for daylight to falter. At the first hint of dusk he stood up and entered the woods once more, devoid of any weapons. Dust inclined not to follow, disappearing off somewhere during the interval Death had spent with his back against a tree trunk. At least the bird was getting more out of this sabbatical than he did.

Death had chosen a nearby cliff to venture towards, passing by a glade covered in knee-length grass that offered sufficient room for him to move about. He stood close to the edge, hands clasped behind his back, and waited.

It didn't take long for the creatures to reveal themselves. Once the remains of the shattered moon made its ascent towards the night sky, Death turned around and found himself facing several of the dark-furred beasts as they emerged from the forest in pairs. They stood on their hind legs, the largest of which slightly towered Death in height, all powerfully built with spikes and talons sharp enough to carve flesh from bone with minimal effort.

They slowly made their approach towards him, sniffing the air for any signs of danger and surrounding the cliff to ward off any chance of escape. Saliva dripped from their open maws as they eyed him hungrily.

Death took one step back, the heel of his age-worn boots dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. He then dropped into a crouch, one knee bent while the other extended beside him, hunched forward at the waist that his fingers nearly touched the ground. Cornered, stooped low, he looked poised to attack. A last-ditch attempt perhaps at delaying the inevitable by tackling his pursuers to the death.

His foes took notice of this and advanced rapidly, sensing victory within their grasp. The younger brood prowled the front lines, growling at each other impatiently, eager to be the first to ravage the figure they had been stalking since his sudden appearance near their territory. Finally, they charged forward and pounced. Teeth and claws bared, ready to tear his flesh apart.

Death watched as the Beowolves closed the distance between them. In that instant, when the Grimm in front couldn't halt or alter its course without their brethren behind pushing them onward, before the first beast's claws could reach him, the Horseman leapt.

High above, he arced overhead the charging swarm with a grace that only angels could match. His boots landed on top of a Grimm unfortunate enough to hesitate at that moment, the impact alone crushing it to the ground as Death used the momentum to launch himself into another leap further across the field. Landing far behind the Grimm's ranks, Death broke his fall with a roll and stood up just as Harvester reached his open grasp.

He turned around to find the remaining Grimm skittering about in a haze of confusion. A quarter of their pack perished during the initial assault from falling down the steep cliff, taking plenty of its brethren along with them plunging to their deaths. Not a moment later did the Grimm seem to detect Death's presence behind them. A furious cacophony of enraged snarls and roars greeted him in return as they regained their attention.

"Finished arguing among yourselves, I imagine?" Death retorted. "Perhaps we can sort out this little misunderstanding of our own."

In response, a lone Beowolf broke off from the pack and lunged at him, claws extended.

Death stepped aside, letting the Beowolf sweep past him. In a two-handed grip, Harvester swung overhead and carved its wicked tip straight into the creature's back. A pained yelp was all it could manage before Death heaved the scythe back, dragging the body across the ground and upwards where it hung like a prized catch on a hook as the long-hafted scythe was planted shaft-first deep in the soil.

The Beowolf made a weak attempt to claw out the jagged blade protruding from its chest before it lay slumped and lifeless.

Death didn't waste a moment when he seized the dead Grimm, hauled it off the scythe, and hurled the corpse across the clearing with minimal effort. It crashed into one of the trees somewhere to his left but Death paid it little attention.

He felt rather than heard the flutter of wings that signaled Dust's presence as the crow scouted from the skies above, circling the area. Providing a better vantage point for keeping track of the enemy's movements which had since then grounded into a halt of uncertainty.

Death could have made the first strike, could have cleaved through and harvested this motley pack of animals into mincemeat by now and be on his way. This was hardly his first excursion, after all. But he did not come here for more of that, and certainly had the centuries to spare. So he waited patiently for the enemy to make the next move.

Though based on their current disposition, Death had little doubt on where the enemy's next course of action would lead to.

"I don't suppose we can discuss this?" he asked without much hope.

As if coming to a decision, the Beowolves reared their bony heads back and howled their cries of defiance before charging at him in unison.

"Wonderful. On your heads be it, then."

Death swerved as the first Beowolf slashed at him with its claws, leaping forward to slice it across the stomach with one of the twin scythes he now held in his hands. Immediately, Death hurled the scythe from his left hand into the incoming foes, severing limbs and torsos in the wake of its deadly arc. He busied himself parrying several clawed strikes of multiple Beowolves with the other scythe, rolling under bodies and leaping through the air to keep the Grimm from overwhelming him with their larger force.

Launching onto the back of a large Beowolf, Death plunged his blade right between the shoulder blades. The beast let out a cry of pain, thrashing and hitting other Beowolves within close vicinity in its effort to dislodge him. Death held a tight grip on the scythe's handle, summoning the other blade back in his grasp and joining it with its twin, both serving as crude reigns. Each tip hooked deeply within the flesh of the Beowolf's shoulders, the Horseman steered it right into the path of its brethren, colliding with the other wolves and carving a clean line of trampled bodies straight to the center of the remaining Grimm.

He was finally thrown off when another Beowolf tackled the one he rode from behind. Sensing an opportunity, two older Beowolves that prowled his movements rather than attack straightaway jumped in front of him as he flew through the air right after his abrupt dismounting. Death twisted midair to face them, Harvester now boasting a single great scythe in his hands. He sliced cleanly through their thick hide, landed nimbly on the ground and turned just in time to cut an ambushing trio with one long sweep.

The Horseman moved constantly, slithering through cracks left open in their formation through which he should never have been able to fit. Harvester rose and fell, spun and slashed, parted limb from flesh, shifting between a single great scythe to twin smaller blades of equal lethality; and enemy after enemy fell. Each time a Beowolf turned to strike at him for killing the one standing next to it, he was already gone, searching for another target to eviscerate.

As time passed, so did their numbers start to dwindle. And dwindle. Until only a handful of them stood on the grass-covered clearing littered with the mangled bodies of what was once their large pack.

Death's burning gaze flickered towards them, his body not without bearing their own marks left inflicted from battle. Long, narrow gashes along his bare torso stemmed from the well-timed strike of a lunging claw; a shallow bite left tiny indentations around the flesh of his upper arm; the metal and leather covering his leggings bore recent scars and tears from cushioning blows. Oddly enough, these newly acquired wounds failed to bleed even the slightest, leaving only shallow gouges on the flesh of his ashen skin. If he felt any sort pain or exhaustion at all, neither showed in his stance.

Skeletal fingers gripped the handles of each scythe, held deceptively loose in Death's hands as he straightened himself and addressed the remaining Grimm at large.

"I rarely indulge the habit of leaving survivors unchecked after such a needless attack on my well-being," Death said wryly. "But for this I make an exception. Leave now and escape with your lives intact. Stay," he nudged a dismembered body with the toe of his boot, "and join the rest of your brethren."

The Beowolves growled indignantly at the veiled threat but were sagacious enough to realize that the battle had been lost. Only pride kept them from retreating with their tails tucked between their legs. Hatred for the being that methodically eliminated each member of their pack warred with their animal instinct to leave and lick their wounds.

For a moment it appeared another engagement proved to be inevitable. The beasts glared at him with heightened animosity, claws unhinged and tension taut aligning their bodies. Death was about to raise his scythes in position when they finally turned tail and ran back to the forest.

Death kept his gaze on the patch of trees they disappeared into, an unseen frown marring his face.

Around him the bodies of the Grimm he had just killed started to fade, essence slowly dissipating into black mist before vanishing entirely. Another oddity Death had noticed during his quarrel with the beasts. Even those that he had sliced open across the torso and stomach did not contain any internal organs to spill. Not even blood, which was a constant among all living things throughout Creation.

The lack of a stomach made Death ponder if they even feed to sate their need of hunger. Why bother to attack him then? Even animals with the lowest of sentient thought knew better than to entangle themselves with the likes of his kind. Not that he could even begin to wonder what drew these creatures to him particularly.

Then there was the anomaly he felt during the course of the fight. Death was no stranger towards his namesake. He had participated in countless battles before and after accepting his role in preserving the Balance, ending hundreds if not thousands of lives as a consequence. Whether the conflicts he was sent to ended in victory or defeat, the souls of the recent dead always managed aid him in some shape or form.

It came to him naturally, bits of energy released from the departed souls of every soldier that fell during the infighting. Their deaths did not only serve to strengthen Death in battle, it fueled the magics of the eldest Horseman. Unleashing the power he held in reserve would quickly turn the tide in _his_ favor, assisting in the swift end of a conflict as quickly as it started. He held an attunement with deaths imparted across a landscape, able to sense newly freed souls within the vicinity.

And he felt not a single departed soul in the lives of the creatures he had taken today.

That in itself was not so unusual. Automatons and constructs built by the Makers bore no souls of their own, though they function as if they were living beings. But whatever purpose they were made for, they still remained tools. Artificial in its creation, hammered out from layers of brass and steel, the life given to them did not include sentient thought, served only to follow the orders of its master. They were all but alive in a sense, and therefore soulless.

These creatures, however, are clearly alive. They feel pain but do not bleed. They hunger but have no internal organs to digest on. Their size distinction proved an age gap between the young and elder. Some were even able to think and decide of an approach on how to attack him. They presented all the qualities of being bred from life, and yet did not even possess a lesser soul like that of an animal.

Death did not know what to think of it. Perhaps the creatures were only native to this realm. After all, he had been informed before his departure that the worlds he will come across in his travels would differ from most that he encountered under the Charred Council's jurisdiction. But that strain of thought only managed to raise further questions.

How were these creatures formed? Do they procreate with others of its kind? Unlikely, considering they have no reproductive organs to speak of if their internal body structure proved otherwise. Perhaps they were formed by a race similar to that of the Makers, only they managed to perfect a method of keeping them alive without the complex intricacies that came with a soul.

That prospect seemed even more troubling than the former.

Before he could continue with that line of thought, Dust chose that moment to settle on Death's shoulder, puffing out his feathers and squawking at him indignantly.

"Yes, yes. I _am_ aware that those creatures escaped my blade." Death waved off the bird's concerns. "I allowed it, after all."

The side-eye Dust gave him could only be described as incredulous.

"Surprising, is it? You'll find that there is more than one side to whatever spiel your Father may have told you about me, bird."

Dust puffed his chest out, but seemed properly chastised as a crow could ever look.

"Now if there is nothing more to it, then I should consider our next move. While I would prefer not to spend any more time in this world, these creatures prove to be an interesting study. Perhaps we could trail those I let free and follow them to their supposed territories to observe how they—"

Dust cawed insistently, the sharper edge in his tone making Death halt his own retort. He listened intently to what the bird had to report, slightly angling his body left to face a section of the clearing where the fighting happened least. From a distance, Death appeared to be observing the perimeter of trees bordered with thick bushes that a Grimm could take advantage of for an unexpected ambush.

Beneath the hood, however, his gaze focused on the small figure hiding between two trees near the edge of the forest. Death would have missed it entirely had it not been for the occasional glimpses the stranger kept shooting towards him, allowing the movement to catch his eye.

_Hmm. Interesting._

**Author's Note:**

> What did you guys think? Child Bandit Qrow was a bit hard for me to envision but I described it as best as I could. The location I placed them on is an easter egg from the show, if anyone could guess where it is. Death was a lot more fun to write, his fight scenes... less so because it's been a long time since I played the second game and to put a description on he how fights with scythes is just a nightmare. However, this is also partly a RWBY fic, so I'm obligated to do my best in detailing a fight scene. Probably not my best. It helps that I have the Darksiders: The Abomination Vault as a reference for Death's style.
> 
> If you're wondering what the timeline is this for Death, you should probably read the book. I based some of it there. This was supposed to be longer, with Qrow meeting Death for the first time. But I realized that this chapter was really getting too long. And after that fight scene, I really should take a rest for now. Don't worry, the next chapter it'll be.


End file.
